


Claimed

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Alternate Universe - Yakuza, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blood, Bruises, Dirty Talk, Dubious Consent, Exhibitionism, Inspired by Fanfiction, M/M, Masochism, No Plot/Plotless, Physical Abuse, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Public Sex, Sadism, Situational Humiliation, Slapping, Slurs, Strippers & Strip Clubs, Teasing, Unhealthy Relationships, Verbal Abuse, Verbal Humiliation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-03
Updated: 2016-06-03
Packaged: 2018-06-06 20:15:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6768457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Tonight in particular Hanamiya’s feeling the itch for a fight, feeling the aching desire for a bruise or a smack or a punch so strongly he barely lasts an hour before pushing his drink against the table and tipping back against the booth seat and drawling, 'I don’t understand the appeal' deliberately loudly in an attempt to strike sparks off Imayoshi’s calm." Hanamiya finds Imayoshi's responsibilities boring, and tries to pick a fight, and Imayoshi indulges him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Claimed

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Picture Perfect](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3962113) by [RubyFiamma](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RubyFiamma/pseuds/RubyFiamma). 



Hanamiya hates visiting the strip club.

He understands all about the responsibility Imayoshi bears as the owner, understands that it’s important that he be seen by the manager and the patrons as much as by the ever-changing stream of women who work there; but it’s universally boring, with nothing more exciting than the occasional too-handsy visitor to throw out, and even then there’s nothing more important for Hanamiya to do than to hover at Imayoshi’s shoulder and look as threatening as he can. Either he’s too good at it, or the club patrons have even less backbone than the rival gang members they usually deal with, because they never put up enough of a fight to be any fun. In the end nights at the club consist of Imayoshi settling into his favorite table in the back corner of the room, and Hanamiya slouching alongside him, and the both of them drinking until Imayoshi is too bored or Hanamiya too belligerent to warrant lingering any further. It always takes hours, try as Hanamiya might, and tonight in particular he’s feeling the itch for a fight, feeling the aching desire for a bruise or a smack or a punch so strongly he barely lasts an hour before pushing his drink against the table and tipping back against the booth seat to drawl, “I don’t understand the appeal” deliberately loudly in an attempt to strike sparks off Imayoshi’s calm.

Imayoshi doesn’t even look at him. “Don’t understand the appeal of what, exactly?” he asks, twisting his glass under his fingers like he’s working over the texture of the bevelled design marking out the side. He’s watching the stage, his gaze fixed on the girl pulling herself up to drape around the pole in the center of it; there’s a quirk at the corner of his mouth, mild amusement or the weight of appreciation Hanamiya can’t decide and doesn’t care. It tenses his jaw with anger all the same anyway, burns in the back of his throat worse than the drink he drags to him so he can down a too-large mouthful.

“The girls,” he says, still watching Imayoshi instead of the stage. “Are the customers really that pathetic that they think it’s worthwhile to throw money for the sake of watching some whore take her clothes off in front of them?”

Imayoshi glances at Hanamiya, just for a moment, his eyes cutting dark behind his glasses before his attention flickers away again. “Don’t call them that.”

“Pathetic?” Hanamiya asks, drawling the word longer to see if he can get Imayoshi’s jaw to tighten on the suggestion of anger. “I didn’t know your aversion to the truth had spread so far, senpai.”

Imayoshi’s jaw doesn’t tighten. He laughs instead, spilling amusement liquid past his lips as he lifts his glass to his mouth to take a sip. Hanamiya can see his throat work on the swallow, can see amusement clinging damp to the other’s lips along with the wet of his drink as Imayoshi draws his cup away. “No,” he says, his shoulders still relaxed; he’s drawing a finger around the lip of his glass now, trailing over the curve of it as if he’s expecting it to hum with the bright ring of crystal under his touch. “I know your proclivities, Makoto, the club’s not meant to appeal to people like you.”

There’s a bite on that last phrase; Hanamiya can feel it like Imayoshi has swung his hand sideways to catch the very tips of his fingers against the edge of the other’s jawline. The impact leaves him flushing hot, not sure if he’s meant to be flattered by a compliment or attacked by an insult and very sure that it doesn’t matter which one Imayoshi meant, not when the result in him is the same either way. His blood is simmering, heat working its way into a flush across his cheeks and the beginnings of a tremor in his fingers, and the boredom in him is converting to desperation at this minimal indication of interest, latching onto that reaction he drew and straining for the right words to say to stoke Imayoshi’s offhand irritation into an open flame to catch and burn at Hanamiya’s skin.

“Oh,” he says, hearing his voice skid onto the mania of an almost-laugh and not caring enough to look around at the sideways glances the sound wins him from their closest neighbors. “ _Whores_?”

“They’re not whores,” Imayoshi says, still calmly, still watching the stage instead of Hanamiya. “You’re being disrespectful.”

“I didn’t know you cared so much,” Hanamiya snaps back. He brings his glass to his lips, downing the rest of his drink in one hurried go; it flares fire under his skin, burns heat down his throat and into his chest, but he only coughs once, and that while holding his glass out to the side in unstated demand for a refill. “Do you delude yourself into thinking you’re saving them or something?”

“I don’t run a charity,” Imayoshi says, reaching to push his glasses higher up his nose. The frames slide up, the glass of the lenses catching the light from the stage; with the white glare across the glass Hanamiya can’t see Imayoshi’s eyes at all. “Don’t be absurd, Makoto.”

“I’m being _honest_ ,” Hanamiya says, biting the word into cut-glass edges that catch the corners of his mouth into a grin that is a little amused and mostly desperate. He doesn’t look away from Imayoshi’s face, from the shine of light off glass as the other man considers the movement of the girl on stage instead of meeting Hanamiya’s gaze. “They’ll do anything for enough money, won’t they?”

“Anyone would do anything for enough money,” Imayoshi tells him. “That doesn’t mean it’s a job requirement.”

Hanamiya rolls his eyes ostentatiously. “Whatever.” There’s movement by his elbow, the approach of a server coming to take his glass and offer him another; he ignores her nervous smile as easily as he disregards the cleavage she bares when she leans over to take his drink, his attention better held by the promise of the fresh drink in his hand. “I didn’t think you of all people would care what I called anyone. You’re more of a white knight than I thought you were.”

“Perhaps you should slow down,” Imayoshi suggests. He hasn’t taken another drink from his glass; he’s still feeling out the edge of it under his fingertips, still idly trailing his touch against the damp of the rim. Hanamiya can see the angle of the other’s knuckles working under his skin, can almost feel the weight of bruises in his veins in the shape of Imayoshi’s bones. “You don’t want to make a fool of yourself.”

“Me?” Hanamiya asks, and brings his glass to his lips for a pointed swallow, even though Imayoshi still isn’t looking at him. “I’m not the one playing at being the boss while I drool over tits all evening. I bet they’re not whores are they, not for you, senpai; you’ve got all the power, after all, I bet you can fuck any one of them you want just for the asking.” He hasn’t set his glass down yet; he takes another mouthful instead of pressing it to the table, lets the burn slide down his throat to catch the hiss of vitriol spilling over his tongue. His laugh comes easy, unhinging itself to mania in his throat, and he doesn’t try to restrain the sound even when it goes long enough to start catching attention again. “If you don’t have to pay, they’re not even whores, they’re just slu--”

Imayoshi’s hand comes out fast, so quickly Hanamiya doesn’t see the impact approaching, doesn’t have the least time to flinch back even instinctively from the blow. The smack cracks against his cheek, Imayoshi’s knuckle catching hard at his mouth, and Hanamiya loses his grip on the tumblr in his hand, dropping it to shatter on the floor in a spray of liquid and a _crack_ of breaking glass, but he doesn’t turn at the sound; he’s gasping at the star-bright burst of pain instead, his vision going white with shock as his face burns into injured heat, and then Imayoshi’s fingers are knotting in his hair and shoving him forward, crushing his face so hard against the table it’s only the angle of his head that saves Hanamiya from a broken nose.

“You’re making a fool of yourself,” Imayoshi says over him, his voice level and as calm as if they’re making pleasant small talk. Hanamiya can’t see the other’s mouth from the way his face is shoved against the table but he doesn’t need to; he knows what smile Imayoshi is wearing, can feel the shadowed heat of anticipation run down his spine just from the thought of the warmthless curve of the other’s lips. “I’ll have to tell them to stop serving you alcohol when we come here if you aren’t going to be an adult about it.”

Hanamiya should back down. He knows that tone in Imayoshi’s voice, knows the polite calm that sounds nonthreatening to strangers, that is a last-ditch warning to those who should know better. A broken nose will be the least of his worries, if he keeps pushing; the last time he did he ended up with a cast on his right wrist and bruises so deep on his throat that he talked with a rasp for three days straight. But every throb of pain from his face shudders heat all down his spine, lighting his blood into flame as if it’s coursing electricity down a fraying wire, and Hanamiya has always hated doing what he should.

“Fuck you,” he says past his swelling lip.

He can hear Imayoshi take a breath, can hear the rush of it sliding past his lips again as he lets it out. “I see,” he says, and Hanamiya is expecting a shove, is trembling anticipation for a knee in his stomach or the burn of Imayoshi’s drink splashed across his face, is ready for the agony of pain to run through him like lightning. He’s not expecting Imayoshi’s fingers to loosen, to trail through his hair and down the back of his neck with as ghostly a touch as if they’re laying spiderwebs in their wake. Hanamiya shivers with the friction, his skin prickling unpleasantly with the gentleness of Imayoshi’s touch, but Imayoshi just lets his fingers wander farther, down along the curve of Hanamiya’s hunched-over spine and to the back of his shirt, where the crisp of the fabric is sliding loose of the waistband of his pants. Hanamiya braces a hand against the table, pushing himself back to upright slowly, half-expecting a burst of unexpected agony at any point; but Imayoshi’s fingers stay gentle, trailing now against the line of his belt where it’s cinched tight against his hip.

“Maybe I shouldn’t have brought you out here tonight,” Imayoshi says, his tone slow and considering as if he’s talking to himself. He’s looking at Hanamiya now, certainly, but it doesn’t help; Hanamiya can’t get a read on the dark of the eyes behind the other’s glasses with the dim lighting of the room obscuring his vision. He doubts better illumination would help -- he can only rarely make a guess at Imayoshi’s mental state even in the most familiar of settings -- but in the dim Imayoshi’s eyes are nothing but shadow, the dark of his lashes bleeding into the color of his pupils until Hanamiya can’t even be sure where the other is looking. “I didn’t realize how much of a nuisance you would make of yourself.”

Hanamiya licks his lips, slow, half to lap at the blood trickling against the corner of his mouth and entirely to suggest a location for Imayoshi’s focus to alight. “Is honesty a nuisance to you now, senpai?”

“You’re not being honest,” Imayoshi tells him. His fingers draw around Hanamiya’s hip, trailing the line of the other’s belt as calmly as they did the edge of his cocktail glass to the weight of the buckle holding Hanamiya’s slacks tight to his hips. Imayoshi’s hand hesitates, gliding over the outline of the metal before skipping over the edge and down to the front of the other’s pants. “You’re being provocative.” His fingers tighten hard, his grip closing to jolt pain into Hanamiya’s mind; Hanamiya’s spine arches, his hips jerk upward, and he knows Imayoshi can feel the way his cock jerks hot against the press of his fingers.

“My employees aren’t sluts any more than they are whores,” Imayoshi says, calm, almost amused, but Hanamiya can barely hear him for the rush of blood pounding in his ears and swelling harder into the ache of his cock in Imayoshi’s too-tight grip. “If you ever call them that again I will make sure even you regret it.” His fingers tighten for a moment, the pressure blinding Hanamiya’s vision to white; and then Imayoshi lets him go, and Hanamiya sags back to the seat with a breathless gasp as the other’s hand slides lower, as Imayoshi’s fingers curl far more gently between his legs to catch and press at the weight of his balls through his clothes. “Tell me you understand, Makoto.”

Hanamiya hisses, heat staining his voice as his hips buck forward in pursuit of the dangerous strength in Imayoshi’s fingers, straining for the crushing pain of the other’s hold closing around him again. “Yeah, sure.”

“You’re not listening,” Imayoshi says. He draws his palm up and away, depriving Hanamiya of even the possibility of more friction; Hanamiya takes a breath to whine, or growl, or offer some other equivalent protest, but then Imayoshi’s fingers catch at the buckle of his belt instead, and instead the sound in his throat is a whimper, shock and disbelief warring for control of his tongue. Hanamiya looks out, away from the dark of Imayoshi’s eyes on him and to the dim-lit space of the rest of the club, but no one’s watching them; even the attention they drew with their moment of violence has been recaptured by the fluid motions of the girl swaying across the stage.

“What’s the matter?” Imayoshi asks, and Hanamiya looks back at him as the other’s fingers draw his belt free of its buckle and move down to the fastenings of his slacks. Imayoshi has his other hand out on the table, his fingers braced against the sides of the glass with elegant unconcern; to Hanamiya’s eyes he looks wholly casual, perfectly calm and perfectly reasonable, as if his other hand weren’t working Hanamiya’s slacks open to hang heavy against the other’s hips. “I thought you were bored, Makoto, is this not interesting enough for you?”

Hanamiya licks his lip again, tastes blood like fire on his tongue. “Are you going to…”

“It’s not just the name I object to,” Imayoshi says, veering the conversation sideways so fast the rising heat in Hanamiya’s brain can’t keep up. He’s drawing his hand away, leaving the tangle he’s made of Hanamiya’s clothes as it is while his fingers catch and dip into the pocket of the other’s undone slacks. “It’s the hypocrisy.” He closes his hand on something, drawing it free and away before Hanamiya can see what it is he’s holding. Hanamiya’s left with his slacks undone around his hips, his cock aching into heat against the tangle Imayoshi has made of his clothes while Imayoshi leans back against the seat in the booth and lowers both hands to his lap, where the dim illumination of the room melts into deeper shadow even than what it is elsewhere. Hanamiya looks sideways, staring at the flicker of action he can see at Imayoshi’s lap; there’s something in his fingers, a clean movement of one hand over the other, and then Hanamiya sees the shine of liquid and realizes what it is that Imayoshi slid from his pocket, realizes what the other intends with a rush that purrs electricity all the way up the length of his spine. Imayoshi crumples the packet of lube once it’s empty, moving to tuck it into the fold of his napkin on the table, but Hanamiya isn’t watching the casual ease of his movements; he’s staring at Imayoshi’s other hand, the one still hidden under the shadow of the table as he reaches sideways towards Hanamiya’s hip. His finger catches at Hanamiya’s loose waistband, drags to urge the fabric farther down the other’s body, and Hanamiya lets out a shuddering exhale as Imayoshi gathers the hem of his shirt up to tug it loose of his slacks. Imayoshi’s touch is cool, slick and slippery as the other’s fingers fit against the base of the other’s spine, and then he slides down, gliding across Hanamiya’s skin and pressing his fingers under the other’s clothes, and Hanamiya shifts his hand at the table, moving to close one hand at the edge of the support with vicious intensity as Imayoshi’s fingers press against him.

“You understand, don’t you?” Imayoshi says. He has his chin braced against his hand, still has his head turned out to face the rest of the room, but when Hanamiya cuts his eyes sideways he can see Imayoshi looking at him from behind the weight of his glasses, his gaze half-obscured by the dark of his lashes. “The girls are up there on stage doing their job, but they’re not getting touched, they’re not getting fucked. While you--” as his touch slides, as Hanamiya’s mouth comes open on a voiceless groan, “--have someone else’s fingers in your ass.”

“Ah,” Hanamiya says, and Imayoshi pushes in deeper, his touch stretching Hanamiya’s body to a high flush of heat. The angle is strange, Imayoshi’s fingers curling to fit into him instead of thrusting in along a straight-line path like Hanamiya is used to, but that’s the least of his concerns; of far greater import is the prickling self-consciousness that is running chill over his skin, the awareness of the situation too bright and clear for him to forget even as Imayoshi pushes deeper into him to seek friction against the inside of Hanamiya’s body. Someone will see, Hanamiya is sure, anyone could turn around from the stage and glance at them and see -- and his vision drops down, pulled away from the rest of the room by the panicked heat of self-consciousness. The table casts his lap into shadow, offers some minimal cover to his body, but the illumination that seemed so dim before feels like a spotlight now, illuminating the white of his shirt into glowing brightness where it’s pushed up around his hips, catching and shining off the dark flush at the head of his cock where it’s straining to visibility at the edge of his shirt. Hanamiya’s whole body goes hot, his spine tingles with adrenaline, and when he lets his breath go it comes out as a whimper that would be utterly telltale were there anyone but Imayoshi to hear it.

“Oh,” Imayoshi purrs, shifting his hand so he can thrust the more deeply with his fingers. “Do you like that?” He’s smiling, Hanamiya can hear the amusement on his voice, but he can’t look up to see the drag of Imayoshi’s smile; his attention is captured by the sight of his clothes loose around his hips, by the dark of his cock straining towards his chest. Imayoshi’s fingers slide deeper, Hanamiya’s body jerks; he can see his cock twitch, can see the slick of precome spill over the head. “You like getting fingered open in public, Makoto?” Imayoshi spreads his fingers wide, pushing hard against Hanamiya’s body; Hanamiya’s throat tenses, his chest straining for a moan that he barely manages to swallow back before it gives him away entirely.

“Hypocrite,” Imayoshi tells him, and Hanamiya can’t tell him he’s wrong, can’t refuse Imayoshi anything when his whole body is shuddering with ripples of heat from every thrust of the other’s fingers. “You call the girls whores and yet here you are moaning just from me fingerfucking you over a table.” His fingers slide back and away, the pressure leaving Hanamiya’s body so rapidly he doesn’t have time to offer a protest; he just gasps at the sudden absence, his head coming up reflexively to look to Imayoshi for a reason. Imayoshi isn’t looking at him, and he’s not looking at the stage, either; he’s looking down instead, to where his hands are working open the fly of his slacks, and Hanamiya’s entire body shudders sensation in sudden, absolute knowledge of what Imayoshi intends. Imayoshi is efficient in his movement, unbuckling his belt and unfastening his pants while Hanamiya is still staring; and then he’s tugging his shirt loose of his slacks, and reaching into his clothes, and when he draws his cock free Hanamiya’s throat works and drags free a moan to spill across his tongue. He expects Imayoshi to tell him to be quiet; but the sound just gets him a glance, and the drag of that smile, and then “Come here, Makoto,” and slippery fingers close at his wrist to drag him sideways, and Hanamiya goes with all the boneless obedience of a doll. Imayoshi pulls him until he’s falling, his balance giving way to topple him sideways over the other’s lap, and Hanamiya throws his hand out to catch himself but Imayoshi doesn’t give him time to recover his balance any more than his composure. The hold at Hanamiya’s wrist goes, Imayoshi’s hand lands at the other’s hip instead, and Hanamiya whines, a “ _Senpai_ ” far back in his throat that is the closest thing he can muster to a protest as Imayoshi’s touch shoves his slacks off his hips and around his thighs.

“What?” Imayoshi asks, purring the word against Hanamiya’s hair as his fingers tighten, as his nails scratch and dig into Hanamiya’s thigh. Hanamiya shifts, trying to gain some measure of control over his body again, but Imayoshi just drags him harder sideways, until most of his weight is resting against the other’s lap instead of on the cool slick of the booth seat under them. “Do you have something to say, Makoto?”

“Someone will see,” Hanamiya says without lifting his head, without tipping his chin to toss the weight of his hair back from his face. When he cuts his gaze sideways it’s through the curtain of his hair, until all he sees of Imayoshi is the dark of the lashes framing the other’s eyes and the bright cut of the smile Hanamiya’s protest draws from him.

“Yes,” Imayoshi says, and then he’s letting his hold at Hanamiya’s hip go, reaching instead to bury his sticky fingers in the other’s hair and push the weight of it up and off Hanamiya’s face. The strands catch against his skin, the motion pulling discomfort over Hanamiya’s scalp, and Hanamiya whines with the pain but turns his head into the force anyway, letting his neck crane in response to Imayoshi dragging at his hair. “Are you afraid of that, Makoto?” When Imayoshi tenses his fingers Hanamiya can feel the weight of the other’s touch brace against his skull, can feel the strength in Imayoshi’s fingers pressing against his head to threaten his temples with the weight of a headache. Imayoshi leans in, his lips brushing against Hanamiya’s ear; when he speaks he’s so close that even at a whisper Hanamiya flinches from the painful volume. “There’s only one person in this room you should be afraid of.” Hanamiya’s whole body shudders, his breath spilling from his throat into a groan too low for any but Imayoshi to hear, and when Imayoshi reaches for the tangle of his slacks with his free hand he goes, letting himself be pulled around and fully into the other’s lap without any further attempt at even insincere resistance.

“Hold onto the table,” Imayoshi says, his mouth close against Hanamiya’s pulled-back hair, his teeth threatening the soft skin at the back of Hanamiya’s neck. The hand in Hanamiya’s hair draws away, letting the sharp angle of his head ease, but Imayoshi’s replacing his hold at the other’s hip instead, angling his fingers to catch his nails hard against Hanamiya’s skin as he steers him into position. He’s shifting, his knees spreading wider under Hanamiya’s weight, and Hanamiya is panting, his whole body going hot in rippling waves of adrenaline so sharp it feels like panic along his spine. He doesn’t lift his head, doesn’t dare look out at the rest of the room; it doesn’t matter, it doesn’t make a difference, all that matters is Imayoshi’s hand at his hip and the strain in his thighs as he rocks backwards and -- and Imayoshi’s cock pressing against him, the hard heat of him catching at the slick of Hanamiya’s entrance, and Hanamiya hears himself whimper helplessly and rock himself back as fast as Imayoshi drags him. Imayoshi hasn’t slicked his palm over himself -- for a moment the heat of his cock catches even against Hanamiya’s lube-slippery skin -- but Hanamiya’s moving anyway, pressing himself down and back and onto Imayoshi’s cock, feeling the burn of the friction spike blinding heat up his spine and behind his eyelids. He’s whining, instinct framing a plea for the mercy he neither wants nor expects, and behind him Imayoshi laughs, and frames Hanamiya’s hips with his hands, and snaps his hips up in a sudden rush of motion that sinks him in the last inch. Hanamiya’s spine arches, his head angling back so hard his vision blurs, and Imayoshi lets his hip go to grab at his hair instead, to hold his head back at that sharp angle while he hisses “Move” against Hanamiya’s ear.

Hanamiya blinks his vision clear of that blistering white light, licks clotting blood off his lip while the dim lighting of the bar resolves around them. “Senpai--”

“ _Move_ ,” Imayoshi tells him again, and rocks his hips up to grind farther into Hanamiya. “Be a good little whore and fuck yourself on my cock, Makoto.”

Hanamiya tips his chin down, tries to force the wild pounding of his heart to ease so he can catch a breath, so he can undo the knot of panic in his chest. Most of the room is still facing forward, most of the audience still appreciative of the girl on stage -- a different one, now, they must have changed when Hanamiya was distracted -- but there are a few sideways glances, a few turned heads that quickly look away as Hanamiya sees them. The table’s still in front of him, still barely covering the bare skin of his thighs from a casual glance, but if he moves --

“They’ll see,” he whines, hearing the words drawl to pathetic desperation in his throat and not able to steady them. “I can’t, senpai, they’ll _see_.”

“Will they?” Imayoshi asks. He kicks a foot out in front of him, shifting Hanamiya’s weight as he does; the toe of his shoe catches at the support of the table, knocking it forward by an inch as he pushes against it. “What will they see, Makoto?” He shifts his foot, pushes again; the table squeaks this time, a handful of heads turn to look back at them, but Hanamiya can’t move, too frozen by rising panic and held down by the sound of Imayoshi’s voice by his ear to even remember how to breathe. “I thought the club was full of sluts and whores, isn’t that what you said?” Imayoshi’s fingers slide up into Hanamiya’s hair, tangling the strands into knots under his touch and shoving the other’s head forward so he can’t see the heads turning, can’t see the eyes catching and lingering against him.

“There’s nothing so shocking about this, then,” and Imayoshi shoves, toppling Hanamiya’s precarious balance forward and over the table with enough force that the surface wobbles and skids their glasses sideways by an inch. Hanamiya turns his face in time to catch the impact against his cheek instead of his nose, but Imayoshi isn’t letting him up, is pinning his face down to the table by the fist he has on the other’s hair, leaning hard against Hanamiya as he pushes to his feet behind him. “I’m the club owner making use of my own product, isn’t that right?” A hand catches at Hanamiya’s shirt, pushes it high up the curve of his spine; Hanamiya shudders at the touch, his cock twitching like it’s trying to strain for his stomach, and then Imayoshi’s hand is bracing at his hip, holding him still against the table while he shifts behind him, as his cock bumps against the slick of Hanamiya’s entrance.

“Or are you not mine?” Imayoshi asks, purring the words into danger on the back of his tongue, into a threat the colder for how calm his voice is. “Have I been mistaken, Makoto?” His cock is hot against Hanamiya’s skin, the suggestion of pressure more than the actuality; Hanamiya can feel his whole body tingling with anticipation, can feel the shuddering tension of want aching down his legs and along his spine like he’s being electrified. Imayoshi’s hips angle forward, his cock slides against Hanamiya’s skin, and Hanamiya’s throat works on a moan he can’t supress. “Do you not belong to me after all?” Imayoshi draws his hips back, the heat of his cock pulling away from Hanamiya’s skin, and Hanamiya’s chest tightens on panic, his fingers tense and drag at the table.

“Senpai,” he chokes out, air rushing from his lungs in the first shudder of terror. “Senpai, don’t.”

“Don’t what?” Imayoshi asks. “Don’t fuck you over a table in my club?” His fingers fist into Hanamiya’s hair, drag hard up and back, and Hanamiya’s head follows, his vision veering from the dark of the table under his face and out to the rest of the club. There are faces, he can see, eyes wide and shocked as they stare, as men elbow each other and turn away from the still-lit stage; Hanamiya can see their eyes drag over him, dismissing his face in favor of sweeping over his shoulders and down to his hips, where his pale skin is laid bare for the dim lighting overhead. “Don’t use you like a whore in front of all these people?”

“No,” Hanamiya grates, his throat straining in time with the heat along his spine. “Don’t _stop_.”

“Ah,” Imayoshi breathes, and it’s almost relief in his voice and it’s almost a laugh, the amusement of certainty clear even over the roar of Hanamiya’s heart beating loud in his ears. “Good” and his hips come forward, and his cock slides into Hanamiya, and Hanamiya groans, a low, shuddering note of desperate gratitude that shivers under his skin like an open flame. Imayoshi doesn’t give him time to catch his breath, doesn’t give him a chance to adjust; he just draws back immediately, tightening Hanamiya’s spine with a knot of panic at the too-soon loss before he thrusts forward again and forces another full-body moan from Hanamiya’s throat.

“Look,” Imayoshi says, and it’s at full volume now, clear for Hanamiya’s ears and anyone else, the words audible for any one of the men looking back to stare at the angle of Hanamiya’s hips bent over the table, for any one of the watchers dragging their gazes over the flush of his cock dripping slick against the smooth surface. “See everyone watching? Look at what an audience you have.” He pulls harder at Hanamiya’s hair, wrenching a hiss of pain from the other’s throat that goes liquid and slurring with heat as Imayoshi’s cock drives forward into him again and jolts a tremor of heat into his body. “Look at all these people who know what a whore you are for me.” Another motion, another spike of heat, and Hanamiya can’t breathe, his whole body is prickling self-consciousness with the eyes on him, with the shadows of judgment in the stares directed at his flushed skin, and he’s so hard even the slick surface of the table rubbing against the head of his cock is enough to make him shudder, enough to tilt his hips forward in a desperate bid for more contact. Imayoshi’s grip eases, his fingers slide sideways to brace against the back of Hanamiya’s skull again; Hanamiya can hear himself gasping for air, can hear the whine of effort in his throat on every breath he takes. “They can all see what a _slut_ you are for my cock.”

“Senpai,” Hanamiya says, but it’s not even a plea, it’s hardly even a moan; it’s just heat, raw and wanting, as quick to fall from his lips as the gust of his too-fast breathing straining in his chest. “ _Senpai_.”

“Makoto,” Imayoshi purrs, and it would be tender, would be affectionate, except that it’s still loud enough to fill the rest of the room, except that the carrying volume on the words makes them a performance studied and rehearsed instead of sincere. “Do you want to come?” Hanamiya’s fingers tighten at the table, he can feel his shoulders strain against the support, but all he can manage by answer is a high, whimpering sound, a desperate whine he didn’t know he could make from his own lips. Imayoshi laughs. “You want me to jerk you off?” His hand at Hanamiya’s back slides sideways, dragging around the edge of the other’s hip, and Hanamiya’s legs flex, his whole body arching forward to strain towards Imayoshi’s touch. He can’t cross the gap -- Imayoshi’s hand is too far away, the other’s hold on his hair too tight -- but he can’t help but try anyway, the action made desperate by the heat in his veins. Imayoshi purrs again, low enough that Hanamiya isn’t even sure anyone else can hear it, and his hand is sliding closer with agonizing slowness, working across the line of Hanamiya’s hip as the other’s legs strain and tremble with the effort to get closer.

“You want to come like this?” Imayoshi asks again, his hand stalling to stillness, and Hanamiya sobs desperation, any self-control he may have once had long since absent from his mind. “With me fucking you in front of all these people?” He twists at Hanamiya’s hair, drags his head even farther back, and Hanamiya blinks haze from his vision to see the eyes on him, the shock in some faces and the heat in others, the curl of grins across mouths almost as cruel as Imayoshi’s. His cock jerks, his blood flares, and Imayoshi says, “You want everyone to see how much you like it?” with a forward jolt of his hips that blurs Hanamiya’s vision to white for a moment.

“Ah,” Hanamiya says, wordless and sightless and breathless all together. “ _Senpai_.”

“Fine,” Imayoshi says, and his hips draw back. His fingers reach, his touch grazes over the head of Hanamiya’s cock, and Hanamiya’s entire body wrenches tight on anticipation, on the sudden flame of inevitability that sweeps through his veins. His cock twitches, his body clenches tight around the weight of Imayoshi inside him, and then Imayoshi draws his touch away, and says “Come,” and snaps his hips forward to drive his cock deep into Hanamiya’s body. Hanamiya spasms, his back arching into a single convulsive shudder, and then he comes, heat pulsing through his body in waves so strong they are more pain than pleasure, more electrical shocks than ripples of relief. His cock is spilling over the table, jerking untouched into pleasure, and Imayoshi is still fucking into him, still thrusting hard as Hanamiya clenches hard around the breadth of his cock. Their audience is still watching -- some are laughing, now, jeering or applauding as Hanamiya quivers against the table -- but all Hanamiya is paying attention to is the pant of Imayoshi’s breathing behind him and the raw edge on the other’s inhales as he finally starts to come undone. Hanamiya wishes he could see it, wishes he could twist around to see the focus he knows must be in Imayoshi’s eyes, the strain that must be collecting around his smile; but he can’t see straight, and he can’t turn his head anyway, and so in the end it’s the tension of Imayoshi’s fingers that telegraphs the other’s impending orgasm, the pressure of his grip tightening to pain against Hanamiya’s scalp. Hanamiya gasps, his head aching with the too-much pressure of Imayoshi’s grip on him; and then Imayoshi groans, a long shuddering note of relief, and Hanamiya can feel the other’s cock spill sticky into him. Imayoshi keeps his hold for another moment, holding Hanamiya in place while he thrusts through the last of his aftershocks, and Hanamiya lets his eyes close, and lets his body rock forward over the table in submission to the force of Imayoshi’s movements into him.

Hanamiya doesn’t open his eyes again. Eventually Imayoshi’s grip on his head eases, and eventually Imayoshi draws back to slide out of him in a spill of slick liquid; Hanamiya doesn’t know if their audience is still watching, doesn’t know if there’s anyone but Imayoshi to see the way he slumps boneless over the table with the weight of pleasure-drained exhaustion stripping strength from his muscles. But after a moment Imayoshi’s fingers come back to his hair, settle into the knots he’s made of the strands like they’re handholds for his fingers, and when Hanamiya turns his head under the contact Imayoshi’s lips brush his cheek, Imayoshi’s breath ghosts warm against the soft skin just under his ear.

“Makoto,” Imayoshi murmurs, too soft for anyone else to hear even if they’re still watching, even if they’re trying to listen. His voice is odd, warm and softened to something that someone else might mistake for affection, if they didn’t know him. “You’re mine.”

Hanamiya doesn’t open his eyes. He doesn’t need to. He smiles instead, a sharp, vivid dig of his lips to bare his teeth, and when he laughs it comes unplanned, twisting to the knife-edge of hysteria as it spills over his tongue.

Possessiveness suits them both better than affection would anyway.


End file.
